


Coffee Or Something

by lookupkate



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Falling In Love, Letter form, M/M, Sherlock is more than a Bit Not Good, different first meeting, tw suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-09 17:32:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 43
Words: 12,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3258392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookupkate/pseuds/lookupkate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John, just getting back on his feet after being discharged, actually does what his therapist says for once and joins a website meant for ex military personel to give each other support. He sees the profile of a man named Shannon. Shannon was supposedly in Kandahar when John was four years prior. John sends him a message and hopes for some sort of connection.</p>
<p>Sherlock is working a case where people are being picked off of a website for ex military personel. He goes undercover as Shannon Brier. He gets a few more hits than he expected.</p>
<p>This is the story of how Sherlock fucked up big time by lying about his entire past and falling madly in love with the man he was lying to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yarnjunkie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yarnjunkie/gifts), [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



Shannon,

Um. Hello. Feel a bit weird initiating. Never done this before. 

I'm ex military, in my thirties, single. Living alone at the moment and working weekends at a clinic to top off my pension. Don't really know what else I should put down. 

Your profile says you were in Kandahar four years ago and so was I. Just thought, well, not sure really. 

This has come off a bit weak, I apologise. Let me know if you'd like to get together for coffee or something.

John


	2. Sorry

John Watson,

I'm sorry for the confusion. I am not interested in meeting anyone at this time.

SB


	3. Not A Lead

John stared at his screen. The man's profile was still active and he'd been updating almost daily. John frowned and saw that he'd replied to someone else's comment on his photo. The photo was of the grainy, poorly lit, profile view type some people would call 'artsy'. John thought it was mysterious. Well, had thought. Not now. Now he thought it was rubbish. Just something to draw you in. 

John went back to his own page and decided to put in a bit more information about himself. He was trying to keep it from sounding like a dating profile but he didn't know if it was working. He looked through the three pictures he'd posted of himself and sighed. All three were taken before his injury and, although he knew that no one could see the physical scarring, he felt he looked different afterwards. He'd lost quite a bit of weight, hospital food and all, and he felt spread thin.

He added his interest in Bond films and older model convertibles then deleted it. What the hell was he supposed to put? 

In all honesty, he didn't know why anyone would want to talk to him. It was supposed to be about support but he didn't understand what being around these people would do for him. Sure, they'd get along, but was getting along the point?

One thing he was sure of was the fact that he was absolutely not looking to commiserate. It was bullshit. He wouldn't sit and tell some poor bloke what he already knew; that war left you broken. Hell, he wouldn't even say any of that to his therapist. The poor woman had tried, God, had she tried, but no matter what she said or how she said it he refused to complain. 

Now, mind you, that didn't mean he spent the time talking about how wonderful life was and how he was so impossibly pleased to be moving on with his life, no. That just meant that every time she tried to dig a little deeper into his psyche he pushed back. He was short and rude at times, yes, but she was prying and he'd really rather not talk.

This entire mindset meant that their appointments dragged, really dragged. They'd sometimes sit for the whole twenty minutes and not say a single word beyond strained hello's. The fact that her pen kept writing even as they sat made John livid. He didn't like how angry it made him to not know what she was writing so he usually went along with her whole 'lets talk and be friends' thing until he could get the hell out.

He closed his laptop and lay back on his bed with a sigh. He'd have to be up in five hours to go to his shift at the clinic and he was left once again exhausted but unable to sleep. He covered his face with his arm and tried to do anything but grow more angry at the man from the website. 

_____

Across town Sherlock was staring at his profile page. He wondered why the man had contacted him. He wasn't the killer. He supposed it was honest curiosity and a need to interact with someone who'd been through the same things as him. Ludicrous. Why on earth would he want to talk to anyone about getting his livelihood taken away. Perhaps it was to do with the time before. Kandahar. Sherlock had merely copied another profile and hadn't thought that people would be interested. He was to lay in wait, that was it. He had to create a profile to see the other profiles and gather information.

Sherlock closed his computer and stood to go look out the window. The night was quiet and he wanted desperately to open the window and scream out it for someone, anyone, to bloody do something. He rolled his eyes when he heard detective inspector Lestrade's footsteps on the stairs and Mrs Hudson's answering coo. He turned just in time to level a false smile at the DI and flop back onto the sofa.

"Anything new?" Lestrade asked as he came through the door and took a seat.

"Are you asking about the case or my burgeoning homicidal rage?" Sherlock shot back with a sneer.

"Oh, so you're going to kill someone now. And who might that be?" Lestrade said with a grin, always a little entertained by Sherlock's theatrics.

"You if you don't leave," Sherlock replied emotionlessly.

Lestrade sighed and went to fill the kettle with water. He bustled about in the kitchen for a while and Sherlock pretended he wasn't watching him move. Sherlock had no idea why the man periodically came over and cleaned. It was obvious Mrs Hudson was doing it for him, so why bother. It probably had to do with his brother. He didn't think the two men really spoke but there was no telling when that might change. Mycroft did have a thing for officers of the law.

Sherlock turned so he was facing the sofa cushions as Lestrade came back into the room with two cups of steaming earl grey. One was set in front of him and Lestrade reclined to sip at the other.

"So, no new leads?" Lestrade asked as he picked up Sherlock's laptop.

"Don't. Touch. It," Sherlock said without looking.

Lestrade rolled his eyes and opened it to find it open to the website.

"You think this is him, then?" he asked.

Sherlock rolled over and snatched the laptop from his grip before Lestrade had even realised he was coming in his direction. 

"You know you can't keep leads from me," Lestrade said in what Sherlock figured was meant to be a scolding tone but reminded him more of the times his mother had tried reverse psychology on him as a child. It never worked.

"He's not-it's not a lead!" Sherlock snapped, falling back onto the sofa with his entire body curled protectively around the computer.

Lestrade took note of that and drank the rest of his tea in silence.


	4. Strange, That

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One week later.

There was a new body the next week. It was out of Lestrade's jurisdiction and the idiot in charge wanted desperately to push it under the rug, thinking, justly so, that a serial killer would drive the media crazy. Lestrade was starting to worry so much that he showed up at the inspector's office to talk with him. Sherlock waited less than patiently in the hall.

"What are you looking at?" he hissed at one of the officers.

The woman said something about Sherlock being a real piece of work and walked around the corner. 'Coffee, they must have coffee', Sherlock thought in a panic as he picked at his nails. Perhaps caffeine would help him to think. There was something, he bloody knew, laying just below the surface. It had to with the skin of the dead man. A similarity he couldn't quite put his finger on. 

"Oh!" Sherlock shouted as he spun and pushed an office aide out of the way for the use of his computer, "petechial hemorrhage, it's got to be the petechial hemorrhaging," he muttered as he tapped away on the keyboard. 

He logged into the website and went directly to Dr Watson's page. That was where he stopped. 

His breath felt caught in his chest for a moment and he really hadn't any idea why. The pictures from the week prior were gone and another was in their place. One solitary picture. Sherlock didn't understand why it shook him so much. Maybe it was the fact that the three pictures he'd seen before were of a smiling man with golden hair and caring eyes and this one was of a pair of feet. 

Strange, that, taking a picture of ones own feet.

What seemed stranger was the fact that the man's feet looked sad. Must have been the bad lighting or possibly the way his heels turned inward a bit like he was in a chair the wrong height. Sherlock grunted, confusion etching his brow as he saw his fingers brush the image on the screen near the inner ankle. He looked around and gave the aide a quick scowl before scrolling down to send the doctor a message.


	5. Chapter 5

John Watson,

How extensive is your knowledge of petechial hemorrhaging?

Also, where did your pictures go?

SB


	6. Chapter 6

It took John over an hour to reply that night, his anger taking over and causing him to pace his small bedsit and curse to all of no one while letting his fingernails bite sharply into his palms, something that took quite a bit of force as he kept them clipped close. He wished they were longer so he would have blood as some sign of his agitation. Instead they only left small, pale crescents. He brushed his thumb across his bottom lip and sat to write once his hands had stopped shaking.


	7. Chapter 7

Shannon,

I really don't know how to respond. 

As for the medical question, if you think you've been injured you should see a doctor. I can't just sit here and give you information over the Internet like some sort of, I don't know, webMD thing. The VA should be able to get you to an A&E but from the next question I have a feeling you aren't in particularly bad shape.

Where did my pictures go? What does that even mean? You didn't have time to even talk to me before but for some reason you're back and what you chose to ask was some bullshit question and why I'd removed the pictures. Who acts like that? What is wrong with you? What do you want?

If you're really interested in petechial hemorrhaging then for gods sake pick up a book. 

John Watson


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock was on the tube following a woman he suspected of stealing from her husband, a client, when he checked the website to see John's reply. Perhaps he should have thought a bit more before typing out his next, but really, he was in the middle of a case. Even though, he felt a bit sick after sending it. This left him wondering what in the hell had woken his usually silent amygdala. Ridiculous feeling guilt over something he had no stake in. 

He fished his mobile out of his pocket three times to edit his reply but left it all the same, the voices in his head yelling alternately that he 'should stop being such a prick if he wanted to talk to this John fellow anymore' and 'who in the hell was he trying to impress?'.

"I don't do that," he mumbled to himself as he followed the woman up the stairs and into the fall evening, "I don't try to impress."


	9. Chapter 9

John Watson,

God's sake. 

SB


	10. Chapter 10

John laughed out loud and rolled the bottle of Alprazolam back and forth in his hands. He was really stuck. He'd not been so tempted to actually physically injure someone in quite a while. He knew he should probably take a pill and go for a walk. At least half a tablet. Instead he tapped out a quick reply and slammed his laptop shut.

_____

Shannon,

If you honestly just corrected my grammar I wanted to let you know that I'm blocking you right now. Got to hell.

John

_____

John hit the send button, which brought him back to the top of his dashboard, and noted that there was another comment waiting. He almost didn't click on it.

_____

John,

Not good? 

SB

_____

John found himself laughing, actually chuckling at the comment, before he tossed the pill bottle aside and sat with a sigh at his desk. He honestly didn't have a clue to why he responded instead of going along with his plan to block the man.

_____

Shannon,

Yeah, bit not good.

John


	11. Chapter 11

John,

I apologise. I was busy and typed out the first thing I thought. I'm not used to having to communicate with someone I actually have an interest in talking to. I didn't really have any intention of meeting anyone on this site, for reasons I'm not sure I'd like to divulge, and have apparently gone about this in one of the worst ways possible. My apology is sincere and I hope you will accept it. 

I would like that coffee very much but am unfortunately not in London at the moment. Perhaps some day soon.

SB

ps. I really am interested in why you took down the pictures you had up and replaced them with the one you did. I'm a fairly good study of human nature and can almost always know why people do the things they do but in this particular instance I find myself out of my depth. I assure you this is not a comfortable situation to be in for me. Take pity.

SB


	12. Chapter 12

Charmed. John was charmed. He sat back on his bed and looked the comment over again. The impossible git. What a bizarre sensation, to be charmed. Aroused, sure, angry, obviously, but charmed...charmed was new. The last time he was charmed was when the Major had tried to scare him off. He grimaced at the thought and shook his head. It was best not to think of that. Instead he'd revel in this brief reprise, let the warmth sink in.

This arsehole was just bloody charming.

_____

Sherlock must have checked his profile seventeen times in the previous twelve hours to make sure he hadn't been blocked. It was ridiculous, this feeling in his stomach. He should be focussing on the case. Not the one of the thieving wife, that one had been solved quickly enough, but the killer on the website. That was why he was on the website, wasn't it?

He clicked update again and found no new changes. Good. Was it good? Why was it good? Trying to understand his own motivations was driving him bonkers.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when Mrs H walked up behind him and sighed. That's all she ever did, sigh at him.

"Yes, I know, you're disappointed in something I've done or disappointed because of something I haven't yet done. Tell me what it is so we can get this over with," Sherlock said curtly.

"Oh, Sherlock, can't I just be worried for you?" Mrs Hudson asked pityingly.

"Worried? Why should you be worried? I was just heading out to do some important work. I'm being a useful member of society, what more do you want?" He demanded as he wound his scarf around his neck.

"You could start by wearing some trousers, dear," she replied with a sad smile.

Sherlock looked down to find that yes, he was fully dressed down to his waist and in pants and socks the rests of the way. He wondered how he'd managed to forget something so essential.

"Oh," he said softly.

Mrs Hudson patted him on the arm and left the flat as he scrambled to find a pair of trousers and shake off this seemingly endless funk. He checked the laptop once more before leaving the flat and found a response.


	13. Chapter 13

Shannon,

I suppose you've waited for my response long enough. You don't seem the kind to apologise often, although I get the impression you possibly should. You're forgiven for the time being.

What do you want to know about petechial hemorrhaging? I'll be of what little help I can.

As for the photos...they felt disingenuous. They were pictures from before I came back to London and I just don't feel like that person anymore. Bit much to be telling someone I've never met, but there you are. I don't have any pictures from now. I don't know why I took a picture of my feet, guess I just couldn't stand to take one of my face.

John


	14. Chapter 14

John,

Was the injury bad?

SB


	15. Chapter 15

Shannon,

I assume you meant to send along some photos. As they didn't go through I'm not sure to which injury you are referring.

John


	16. Chapter 16

John,

The injury that caused you to be discharged.

SB


	17. Chapter 17

Shannon,

I didn't say anything about my injury. Do we know each other?

John


	18. Chapter 18

John,

You didn't have to say anything, and no, we don't know each other. Well, didn't know each other previously. I know there was an injury as you were an accomplished field surgeon in the army who came home to work locum on weekends at a clinic you hate. Were you uninjured you would be able to at least take a cover shift from a sugeon here and there. So, something to do with your hands; even a man without the use of his legs could at least assist with surgeries. I'd say you lost a limb but I don't think the injury was that severe, the rehab time would have been twice as long. 

So, tell me, John, was the injury bad?

SB


	19. Chapter 19

INVITATION TO CHAT FROM USER: 12d304 John Watson.


	20. Chapter 20

SB: Are you going to answer my question, John?

JW: you're some sort of genius, aren't you?

SB: Some sort. Bit not good?

JW: no...strange, but not not good.

SB: Double negative?

JW: yeah.

SB: I see now why you were a soldier and not a writer.

JW: oi! I was a doctor too!

SB: My apologies.

JW: now you're just teasing. 

SB: And you're avoiding the question.

JW: it was my shoulder. Gunshot. Get tremors now. Not so bad I can't hold a pen but bad enough that I can't hold a scalpel. 

SB: There's a bit more.

JW: can't get anything past you, can I?

SB: ...

JW: I've got a limp. That's the other thing. I won't even ask how you knew. 

JW: you're amazing.

SB: Really?

JW: yes, really. Why? What do people usually say?

SB: Piss off.

JW: well, that was my first response, wasn't it?

SB: I'd like to thank you for reconsidering.

JW: oh, well, you're welcome, I suppose. So, tell me about this hemorrhaging.

SB: I'm actually done with that. 

JW: oh, alright...

SB: I could still use your help, though. Just not right at this particular moment.

JW: well, now you know where to find me.

SB: John?

JW: yeah?

SB: I have to go now. Will you be able to sleep tonight?

JW: am I that predictable?

SB: There's nothing wrong with predictable. 

JW: I'll be fine.

SB: I know you will. Goodnight, John.

JW: goodnight, Shannon.

USER 12f555 HAS DISCONNECTED


	21. Chapter 21

It was one of those bizarre accidents that felt like fate, not that he believed in that type of drivel. Sherlock was just settling into his place at a small table in his favorite cafe when a blond man sat nearly across from him. There was this moment where time seemed to slow and Sherlock's stomach fell. He looked away quickly and pulled his mobile out, running through the photos and finding the ones he was looking for. Yes.

Sitting just there, just beyond Sherlock's booth, with his cane resting against his leg was one John Watson.

John had been right about the photos. They weren't him anymore. What time and injury, and undoubtedly depression, had done to him wasn't out of his favor. Yes, he wasn't the carefree looking type now, but he held a quiet power in his space, and tightly coiled strength.

Sherlock felt himself blushing and cleared his throat before pocketing the mobile and sipping his coffee. 

He sat like that for twenty minutes, watching John drink his tea and play with the napkin before the veteran stood and walked out the door. As he watched John walk down the street he knew for a fact that for the first time in his life he longed for someone. 

Maybe it was the way John had stood up to him, making him want to apologise a million times over, or perhaps the way he teased him when others dismissed him. Either way he was stuck with a slightly ill feeling in his gut and a need to learn more about the man. He packed his things and made his way home as quickly as possible.


	22. Chapter 22

INVITATION TO CHAT FROM USER: 12f555 Shannon Brier


	23. Chapter 23

JW: well, hello.

SB: Tell me something about yourself. Something you wouldn't put on the website.

JW: ...okay. I love Bond films.

SB: Not something useless. Tell me something that matters.

JW: what do you want to know?

SB: I don't know.

JW: that's not really helping.

SB: I don't usually want to know about people unless it has to do with motive.

JW: but you want to know about me?

SB: Very much.

JW: why?

SB: I don't know.

SB: Disregard the question. I have to go.

USER 12f555 HAS DISCONNECTED


	24. Chapter 24

Shannon,

I don't exactly know what that was. 

I know what it's like to not want to interact with people and if that's how life is for you right now I can be your safety zone. When I came back I could hardly speak out loud let alone to anyone. I would wait until three o'clock in the morning and go to an all night grocery so I didn't have to talk to people. Even then the person at the register knew something was off. I know it's hard to open up and though I don't know why you picked me to talk to, I want you to know you can tell me anything, ask me anything. I won't judge.

How long have you been back from service? It doesn't say on your profile. I know it's cliche, but it does get better. I can talk to real people now, at the grocery and the clinic. I've made a few friends and although I don't think they really know me at all it's still better than being home alone at night. 

You said motives. What does that mean? Are you away with work? Are you safe?

Something about myself. Several nights a week before I go to bed I clean my gun and think about slipping it between my lips and signing off for good. Less than before, but still.

John Watson


	25. Chapter 25

John,

I'm glad you haven't. Don't. Please.

SB


	26. Chapter 26

Sherlock was on his laptop the next day, wondering what he should write as to where he was, keeping the ruse up was making him a bit uncomfortable, imagine that, when Lestrade walked in. Sherlock ignored him for as long as possible before he started shifting stacks of papers on the coffee table, something the older man knew for a fact would get his attention.

"What do you want, Graham?" Sherlock asked, hopping from his chair and physically stoping Lestrade from any further movements.

"You haven't been answering my texts about the case. I really shouldn't have to come to your home every time I want to talk to you," Lestrade replied, settling into the chair across from Sherlock's.

"I'm working on it," Sherlock said, sitting back down and scrolling through John's profile page, "I'm on the website right now."

"Looking at pictures of your boyfriend," Lestrade replied under his breath.

"Don't believe everything Mrs Hudson says," Sherlock said, slamming the laptop closed and going into a sulk, "has there been another murder or are you just here to babysit me?"

"No, and you don't need a babysitter," Lestrade said with a small grin, "you need a lion tamer."

"Yes, well, if you're done being clever you know where the door is. Good day detective inspector," Sherlock replied with a wave of his hand.

"I've got another case," Lestrade said, resting back in his chair, "one I think you might like. Cold case from a few years back."

Sherlock looked up at that, taking the bait, and struggled not to look interested.

"Why do you think I'll like it?" he asked, "or is this just another way of getting me to do your job?"

"Strange ligature marks. The detective on the case corrupted the file with all the interviews and details of the scene on it. All we have are the photos," Lestrade replied, picking at something nonexistent on his trouser leg, "sort of impossible to solve the crime with just that."

Sherlock snorted and Lestrade knew he was hooked.

"Give me the photos," Sherlock drawled in practiced disinterest, "no wonder you lot can't ever get anything done."

Lestrade went to the kitchen table and grabbed the file, coming back and dropping it in Sherlock's hand, and then headed for the door.

"Say hello to your friend for me," he said as he started down the stairs.

"He's not my friend!" Sherlock shouted after him.


	27. Chapter 27

John,

I have an interesting case I'm working on. Perhaps you'd like to take a look at the crime scene photos. It wouldn't be safe for me to send them to you here but if you give me a personal email I'll get them your way.

You can reach me at: SH.tsod@gmail.com

Have you seen a lot of dead bodies?

Shannon


	28. Chapter 28

To: SH.tsod@gmail.com

Hello Shannon,

This is John Watson. You can send the pictures to this address. I've seen plenty of dead bodies but I don't know if that will help with civilian crimes. I assume you are working with police somewhere. Is it safe for you to answer that?

John


	29. Chapter 29

INVITATION TO CHAT FROM USER: 12f555 Shannon Brier


	30. Chapter 30

INVITATION TO CHAT FROM USER: 12f555 Shannon Brier


	31. Chapter 31

John,

Where are you?

It's been two days.

SB


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not a real number, or at least not a fictional character's real number. Some poor dude's real number I guess. Don't call the poor dude looking for John Watson. He won't be there.

Shannon,

I'm sorry I haven't been on to chat. My sister got herself into a bit of trouble and had to spend a few days in hospital. I didn't have time to grab my laptop before I was running out the door.

Are you going to send the photos?

How are you? 

John 020 6329 6347


	33. Chapter 33

It was during his lunch break the same day that John received ten crime scene photos in his inbox. He was looking through them and wondering how he'd got to this place in his life when his mobile chimed. 

Do you normally give your phone number out to strangers? SB

John smiled down at the screen, uninvited butterflies in his stomach, and typed out an answer.

No, just strangers that send me pictures of dead bodies. JW

The wait for a response took no time at all.

You're a strange man, John Watson. SB

John laughed out loud at that and chewed on his lip a bit before answering. It felt like flirting, cor, it really felt like flirting.

You say such nice things. JW

I missed you. SB

I didn't mean to send that. SB

Ignore that. SB

I meant that it was annoying not being able to get ahold of you. SB

John took a deep breath and replied.

I missed you, too. JW

He held his breath because now, yes, he was flirting.

Oh. SB

That's good then. SB

What are you up to today? Still jet setting around the globe? JW

Mmm. Can't say. Wish I could. SB

I got the photos. Was just looking at them. Was the man strangled with something? Maybe a belt of some sort? JW

Close. I believe it was a homemade garrote, although the one mark is much darker than the other so I think the killer used the French version, la loupe, and the dead man tried to get free. SB

Pulling on one rope then tightened the other. JW

Exactly. SB

So what's next on the case? Look for someone who had it in for him and was French? JW

Or special forces. It should take a cursory investigation into his colleagues and family. Possibly less than a day. SB

Christ! It'll only take that long? Don't investigations usually take weeks or months? JW

Not when I'm on the case. SB

Because you're brilliant and can read anyone. Tell me what else you can read about me. You know I hate my job, have an injured shoulder and a limp, am a doctor and used to be military. I think that's all there is to me. JW

Then you're an idiot. SB

Hey! What did I say about that kind of talk? JW

My apologies. I just meant that you're wrong. That's not close to all there is to you. You've simplified and therefore ignored the most important thing about you. SB

And what's that? JW

You are a good man. SB

I have to go. SB

John sat back in his chair and tried to breathe through the knot in his throat. He hated it when people said that about him. 'You're a good man', 'you're so brave'. It always ended with him feeling like he needed to leave the room. It was odd to have someone else leave before he had the chance to. 

He wondered if Shannon knew he would be moved by the statement and decided to sign off then or if it made him uncomfortable to say it. Either way he was alone again.

He cleared his throat and tried not to think of the final two statements as he scrubbed up and got ready for his next patient.


	34. Chapter 34

Sherlock bustled his way onto the crime scene, making a beeline to Lestrade and nearly knocking a few people over on his way. Sally stopped what she was saying as he approached and Lestrade let out a long suffering sigh.

"I'll never understand how you always find me at a crime scene you've not been invited to," he said.

"Maybe because he committed it," Sally added.

Lestrade actually rolled his eyes at her, which stopped Sherlock in his tracks, not sure exactly how to show his approval, and looked back over at Sherlock.

"What can I do for you?" he asked.

"Much better," Sherlock replied, taking a step closer and puffing his chest out a bit, "John and I know who killed the man," he smiled and then added, at Sally's amazement, "not this man, the cold case man."

"John and you? Who the hell is John?" Sally demanded.

"He's my friend," Sherlock said, enunciating more than truly necessary to get the point across, "and he was a doctor in the army. A captain."

Sally shook off the shock and snorted loudly, something Sherlock would later remind her wasn't the least bit attractive, thus ruining her plans on the new lieutenant.

"You don't have friends," she said.

"I have one," Sherlock replied, head held high, "and he's assisted me on this case."

"I didn't clear you to share the information with anyone, Sherlock," Lestrade began.

"Do you want the killer or not?" Sherlock asked, cutting him off.

The older man put his hands on his hips, scrunched his nose, and nodded.

"I'll email you the information," Sherlock said, turning with a swirl of his coat and walking away.

"If he was going to email it to you why did he even bother showing up?" Sally asked.

"I think he wanted to show off his new...friendship," Lestrade said with a small smile.

"Eeew! Are you telling me the freak has a boyfriend? I don't even have a boyfriend!" Sally replied animatedly.

Lestrade shrugged and his grin grew, causing Sally's face to turn an interesting color as she strode off in disgust. He chuckled to himself and made a mental note to look into this John.


	35. Chapter 35

On Sherlock's way home from the scene he walked past his favorite coffee shop, well, almost. It seemed like it couldn't be true, like when you see the back of someone's head and automatically start running through who it could be that you know, when your brain stops considering it might be a stranger and starts trying to tell you who it is. He stopped moving and then, after a long pause and a flash of lights rolling past his eyes (the memory of not only every picture of John but every millisecond he'd spent in John's presence), he took two steps back, and then one more.

Owlish would probably have been the best description of him then, eyes wide and searching, mind already gathering more information than others gather in a week, a year. He remembered to breathe just then and dragged air into his lungs once, twice, and then a final time, before walking into the shop.

As he rounded the corner he watched as more and more of John Watson (formerly of the Northumberland fusiliers, Kandahar, Afghanistan, Bart's hospital) was revealed. He took in the exact curve of his ear, the path the stubble took to his chin, the way his throat bobbed as he drank, and went to the counter to order.

"Espresso," he said curtly to the attendant as he slipped his mobile from his pocket and silenced it.

The girl made him his drink and took his bank card all without getting one glance from him. He found himself sitting as far away from John as he could and licking his lips an inordinate amount of times. He sipped the coffee, too hot, and typed out a message, hands shaking.

I solved the case. SB

He sent it and looked up to see the moment that John's mobile went off and he opened the screen, the light casting a greenish glow across the doctor's face. It happened so quickly that Sherlock had to roll the moment back in his mind several times to believe it. John had relaxed. John had relaxed and laughed and spoken because of him.

This was real.

This was real life.

John's shoulders had relaxed and he'd taken a deep breath and then the most glorious sound had come from him, an unexpected high giggle that he followed with a softly spoken 'brilliant'. 

Sherlock nearly jumped out of his skin when his mobile buzzed in his hand, forgetting not only that he'd put it on silent but that he'd had it in his hand at all. He glanced down at the screen and smiled himself.

Was I supposed to believe you wouldn't? JW

You've got quite a bit of confidence in me. Do you think that's smart after such a small amount of time? SB

I don't know. Maybe you don't need another person in your entourage. JW

Sherlock looked up quickly to make sure he wasn't being made fun of and found John smiling down into his coffee with his phone resting beside it. Teasing maybe? Yes. Yes, he was smiling teasingly.

It is quite full but I suppose my tabernacle choir could use another member. How is your singing voice? SB

Another laugh at that and then John rubbed a hand across his face and bit his lip and sighed and there was an odd feeling in Sherlock's stomach and he thought for some reason that he should really be paying attention to this so he wouldn't forget it (which was an idiotic thought to have because he never forgot anything without willing himself to do so, but still, the thought was there).

Not too good...but I learned the clarinet in school. JW

John Watson, you cease to amaze. SB

What do you look like? JW

Because when I talk with you I can't picture you in my head. JW

I'm sorry if that's too forward. JW

Sherlock was watching John then as a look passed over his face. He went from gregarious to a bit more reserved. He chewed at his thumb and then lip as he fiddled with his mobile, obviously waiting for an answer. Sherlock froze.

I'm sorry. Forget I asked. JW

John's face fell. Sherlock fumbled with his mobile, dropping it in the process and causing John to look up as he picked it up. They held each other's eyes for a moment before Sherlock sat back down and took a drink of his now lukewarm espresso.

Im tall. SB

Oh. Tall's good. JW

I'm not. JW

Not's good too. SB

John chuckled at that and took a sip of his drink.

And what color eyes do you have? JW

Hard to say. Heterochromia. My eyes are a mix of blue and green and gold. SB

Mysterious. JW

Your eyes aren't brown. At first I thought they were, but they're blue, aren't they? SB

Yes. Dark blue. JW

Is this what people talk about? Eye color? SB

Sometimes. Eye color, personal interests, the weather. JW

The weather is boring. SB

So tell me something interesting. JW

Sherlock sat back at that, the need to impress not usually coming into the equation like it did then. It wasn't the need he felt in a room full of people, the need to shut them the hell up. It wasn't the need he felt with is parents, the need to show he was clever and that he was doing right by them. It wasn't a wholly new feeling, this impulse to make someone LIKE him. He'd felt it with his schoolmates before he learned better, with dates before he swore them off, in bed before he gave that up completely. 

Well, genius, come on then, give me something. JW

I like you. SB


	36. Chapter 36

John choked on his coffee and set his mobile down for a second before picking it back up and holding it closer as though he wasn't sure he could believe what he was reading. 

Too forward? SB

No. No, not at all. I just thought I might be the only one. I like you too. JW

Sherlock watched as John breathed deeply and leaned back in his chair with a gentle smile. He'd done that. He'd made John smile, made him unfurl like a new leaf. 

It was invigorating watching John like this, watching him open up, and even though the first admission was out of something more like confusion the second was out of bravery, a type of bravery he had yet to feel prior to meeting John.

I haven't liked anyone in a long while. How did you do this to me? SB

John chuckled and sighed deeply before typing a response.

I don't know, really. Didn't expect this. JW

Mmm. You are quite the marvel. SB

You aren't so bad yourself, genius. JW

John's mobile went off and he picked it up with a huff and answered, whispering hoarsely into the receiver and then hanging up.

Problem at work. I have to go. Text me tonight? JW

What time will you be done at the clinic? SB

Twelve, London time. Don't know what that is wherever you are. JW

Sherlock's stomach grew tight at the recognition of the lie he was keeping and he hid his face as he exited the coffee shop.

I'll talk to you then. Stay safe, John. SB

Same to you. JW


	37. Chapter 37

Sarah was waiting at the front for John when he finally made it in. They'd been on their first date the week before, prior to him knowing how much he wanted to be with Shannon, and she'd been on his case for another date ever since. He didn't exactly know how to tell his boss that he didn't want to see her anymore.

"John!" She chirped.

"Hey, Sarah," John replied, grabbing a pen and signing the intake sheet of his first patient.

"Little boy in three for you. Checkup on an injured arm. I'm glad you could come, we're booked solid and Andrew's wife went into labor two hours ago," she said, following him down the hall and grinning stupidly.

He supposed that was how he looked a half hour before so he really had no room for criticism. He nodded to her and walked into the room.

_____

At around eleven forty five Sarah popped her head into the room and grabbed John by the arm playfully.

"Come, John, everyone's going out for a celebratory drink," she said as she dragged him to the front.

"I've got to go home," he tried weakly.

"Just an hour, I promise," she said with a wicked grin.

He shouldn't have believed her.


	38. Chapter 38

Sherlock was pacing his flat, had been for the last four hours. His legs were screaming at him to slow the hell down and take a rest but his brain was much too loud in its chanting of 'John, John' for him to notice. He checked the time again, ten minutes until he could text John, and scratched at his already irritated forearm, the two patches placed below his shirtsleeve pulling against his skin painfully.

"Sherlock, dear, you need to sit down," Mrs Hudson said from the doorway, "you'll wear a hole in the carpet."

Sherlock looked to the floor for a moment as if he thought that, yes, he possibly could, before huffing and waving his hand in front of himself until the older woman left. When she closed the door he went and refilled the kettle before turning it on again, promising himself he'd get it before it boiled dry. He ran his fingers along the handle, lost for a moment in the thought that he really should get one that shuts off automatically, before the name John snuck back into his consciousness.

John.

He sat in his chair and wrote out a text.

Hello, John. SB

No, delete it, weak.

Made it home safe? SB

No, delete it, smothering.

How was work? SB

No, delete it, boring, expected, too domestic.

I miss you. SH 

Jesus! Delete it! Too honest! Real name! Delete! Delete!

He needed something funny, something sarcastic sounding that would make John laugh like he had, make him grin and sigh and rub the back of his neck.

Nothing. Damn.


	39. Chapter 39

It was three thirty seven when John finally made it home, skin hot from too much drink and eyes tired. He got from the cab and climbed the stairs, leg aching where it usually did, pain spiraling upwards like an actual wound. The key fit in the lock on the third try, 'a lot of bloody threes tonight' John thought, and he slipped into the dark flat with a long sigh. 

When his hand did find the switch he regretted it, palming the light back off and using his other hand to cover his eyes. Bloody hell, it was late. 

After finding the desk lamp and appreciating its dull glow for a moment he rolled his neck and slipped out of his jacket. There was a niggling in his mind as he saw his phone fall from the pocket and rattle against the stained carpet. There was something he was supposed to do.

Once it was in his hand it all came back to him. Christ, Shannon was going to text him. And yes, there were four texts on the screen, in varying degrees of concern and slight irritation.

John. SB

Are you there? SB

Did something happen at work? SB

I'll leave you to whatever it is. SB

He thumbed at the icon below the reply button and put the mobile on speaker as he loosened his tie. It wasn't until the ringing ended and someone picked up that he realised what he'd done.

"John?" a deep voice purred.

"Jesus," John replied.

"So that's what you're going by now, is it?" the voice returned playfully, tinged with sleep.

"Have I woken you? I didn't mean to call, my finger just..." John began.

"Mmm, cat nap. Unusual for me," the voice replied with a small yawn, "you're drunk."

John swallowed hard and felt himself blush as he slowly unbuttoned his shirt and slipped his tie over his head.

"No. Well, not really. Bit buzzed is all," he clarified, "workmates dragged me along to the pub. Someone's birthday or something, I don't know."

"Didn't pay that much attention?" 

"No. Thought I could get a half hour in and make it home. Suppose I was wrong," John replied with a small shrug.

"You're undressing," Sherlock said softly, as if thinking it without intending to turn it into a voiced observation.

"Yes," John replied a bit breathlessly.

"Getting ready for bed," Sherlock added. 

"That was the plan, yes," John said as he slipped his thumb into his belt buckle and eased the leather out.

"Should I let you go?" Sherlock asked, uncertainty leaking into his voice.

"No. I think not," John said as he picked up the mobile and walked to his bed.

"Oh," Sherlock said softly.

"Yes, oh. Tell me, soldier, would you like to accompany me back to my bunk?" 

The deep breath from the other side of the line had John growing harder in his pants. He closed his eyes for a second and imagined Shannon on his bed with his legs splayed and head tilted back. 'Oh, this is going to be good', he thought.

"Yes," Sherlock whispered.

John chuckled and pushed his pants to the floor, taking up the rest of the walk and then sitting high on the bed.

"Yes, what, soldier?" he growled.

"Yes, sir," Sherlock replied.

"Tell me what you're doing," John said as he rested against the wall and palmed himself gently.

"I'm in bed," Sherlock said, "I'm talking to you."

"Mmm. And are you touching yourself?" John asked as he brushed his thumb across the sensitive crown of his own cock.

"Y-yes," Sherlock whimpered.

"Christ," John hissed, "that's good. Does it feel good?"

"Oh, oh, yes," Sherlock admitted, breath panting out quite suddenly.

"Slow down," John said roughly, "don't get yourself too worked up yet."

"Bit hard not to," Sherlock replied with a weak laugh.

"Been a while?" John asked, hand skating down to cup his bollocks.

"Yeah, few years," Sherlock admitted, flushing at the thought.

"Was the last time while you were deployed?" John asked.

"No. It was, well, that is-" Sherlock began nervously.

"Shh. It's okay, you don't have to tell me," John soothed as he reached into his bedside table and brought out a small tube of generic lubricant.

"Tell me, tell me what you'd do to me," Sherlock said quickly before he could think to stop himself.

"Mmm. You've been with a man before?" John asked.

"Yes," Sherlock replied shakily.

"Ever had someone lick your arse?" John asked, knowing the question would elicit a sharp response.

"Oh! Oh, no," Sherlock murmured, already getting worked up again.

"Well, I'd start there," John said with a smile, "I can't wait to lick you, press my tongue into you. Can't wait to knead your arse."

"Yes!" Sherlock hissed.

"Get you wet and shiny and whimpering," John added, "can't wait to open you up. You'd let me, wouldn't you? You'd let me stick my fingers into you."

"Yes, John," Sherlock panted.

John started to stroke his own cock with a slick fist and let his eyes fall closed as he listened to the sounds from the mobile, the sounds of slick skin against skin and desperation.

"Would you like that, Shannon?" John asked, "would you like me to take control?"

"Yes, John," Sherlock whined.

"And you'd be so very good for me?" John asked.

"Yes, John, please," Sherlock whined.

"More then?" John teased, "alright. Next I'd open you wide enough for my prick and press the head against you, rub up and down until you begged me to shove it in. Will you do that for me? Will you beg?"

"Please, John, please," Sherlock said desperately as he fucked his own fist.

"Perfect. I'd bury myself in you, fill you up," John crooned, "I'd pump into you roughly until you were crying out for me to touch your cock."

"Oh!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"I want to come inside you," John growled, hand a blur on his cock.

"Yes!" Sherlock shouted, voice pinched, "come in me!"

John pressed a slick finger to his arsehole and breached the tight ring just as he started to come, prick spilling all over his chest and stomach.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," he painted.

He heard Sherlock grunt and draw in a pained breath before sighing deeply.

"Hell. Did you come?" he asked as he slowed his strokes and then dropped his hand to the side.

"Mmm," Sherlock replied, voice even deeper than before.

"Good. That's, that's good," John replied as he cleaned himself off with a discarded vest.

They lay there breathing for a long while, happy simply to inhabit the same frame of mind if not space. John wondered absently what Shannon's skin would feel like, how he might smell.

"John," Sherlock murmured.

"Yeah?" John replied softly.

"I think I'm falling asleep," Sherlock whispered.

"That's okay," John replied with a gentle smile, "you can go to sleep now if you want."

"Will you sleep now, too?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah," John said with a yawn, "I think I will."

They lapsed into silence again and John pulled the covers up to his chin and rolled onto his side.

"If you were here, with me, would you stay the night?" Sherlock asked after a while.

"I'd like to," John replied, "if you'd let me."

"I think I'd like that," Sherlock said, "John?"

"Yeah, genius?" John murmured, no longer able to enunciate completely.

"Goodnight," Sherlock whispered.

"Goodnight, Shannon," John replied.

A little while later one of the two men rang off, though if pressed neither could tell you which, and they both fell into a deep sleep.


	40. Chapter 40

The next morning John woke with a raging headache and a twisting in his gut over the night before. Had he gone too fast? How was he already so absolutely lost for this mystery man? What should he say?

He made himself tea and sat down at his computer to check his email. There was a message telling him someone had written a note on his profile board so he logged in and scrolled down to the bottom of his page, sipping his tea slowly and trying to relax.

-Captain Watson! Don't know if you remember me. You patched me up about a year back. Saved my life. Christ, what's time done to us? I'm in town on leave for the next week, do you have time to come out and let me buy you a pint? -James Mayder-

John went to the man's profile and spent a while going through his photos. He felt bad, as he honestly didn't remember the bloke, but he'd patched up so many lads during his time in action that he really couldn't be blamed. He typed out a quick message, telling James that he'd love to grab a pint, and closed the webpage.

Just as he was putting two pieces of bread in the toaster his mobile buzzed with an incoming text.

John. There's been a development in the case I'm working on. I might not be able to talk for a while. SB

I'll find it difficult to not at least text, but it's part of the job. SB

John smiled at that, all the anxiety over the night prior leaving him and being replaced by warm contentment. He closed his eyes and tried to remember the man's voice, the way he rounded his name.

I understand. I'll talk to you whenever you're free. JW

_____

Around lunchtime John received a notification on his mobile that there was a response from the James fellow. He clicked on it and replied that he'd definitely be up for the pint that night and asked for the address of the pub he mentioned.

_____

The last thing John remembered before things went fuzzy was drinking with the man James, who he definitely didn't remember, and laughing. Now his head hurt. It ached. The familiar metallic taste in his mouth let him know he was bleeding from his lip. He was still feeling woozy, as if he might pass out at any moment, as he looked around the large room for some sign of where he was.

"You're gorgeous like this, captain. Haven't had one of those yet. You're a step up from the last, that's for sure," James said from a dark corner.

"Who are you? What is this?" John asked, rolling his neck and realising his hands had been bound to the chair he was sat in.

"That's not important," James said, "what you should be focusing on right now is how long it'll be until I kill you. I think I'll strangle you. Nothing like feeling the life slip from a body right below your fingertips."

John's jaw clenched and he flinched at the pain as he moved his legs to see if there might be some literal wiggle room. No such luck.

"I'm going to start-" James began.

"No, you really aren't," came a deep voice from the far door.

John's head lolled forward and he found himself unable to focus his eyes. The voice was familiar but he couldn't seem to string two thoughts together so it simply rolled over him like a wave.

There was a scuffle and John's chair fell onto his side, the blurry image of two men grappling dancing in front of his eyes. The taller man hit James over the head with something and he fell to the ground, unmoving. The figure loomed closer and cupped John's jaw gently as others flooded into the room.

"John. John, you're safe. I have you," the familiar voice cooed as another bellowed out directions.

John breathed deeply and drifted off.


	41. Chapter 41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're coming up on the end here, folks.

Before John opened his eyes he knew he was in hospital. The smell was what got him every time. He swore a hospital smelled different when he was there as a patient than when he was there as a doctor. Stupid, he knew, but true. He took a few deep breaths through his mouth, trying to ignore the industrial cleaner and rubbing alcohol, and felt a hand on his. It relaxed him.

That is, until he realised that he had no one that would do that, touch his hand. No one.

He opened his eyes and slid his hand away. He definitely didn't know this man.

"I'm sorry, are-" he began.

"No," the man replied, and, dear lord, there was the voice.

"Shannon?" he asked, bewildered.

"Sort of," the man said with a sad smile.

"What do you mean...can I have some water?" John asked, just then noting how horribly dry his mouth was.

The man poured him a glass and passed it over.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes. I met you online as Shannon Brier. I was working a case and had to create a fake profile," Sherlock said.

"So, this was the case? And what, was I always meant to be the next victim?" John asked, setting the cup aside and wishing he felt less exhausted so he could stomp from the room.

"I don't know. Nothing you or I did accounts for that. I didn't know it was you until I got there," Sherlock admitted, not knowing something that had nearly killed John.

"So why bother with chatting me up, then?" John asked bitterly.

"I wasn't, that's not what that was. I didn't mean to meet you. You initiated," Sherlock replied, picking at the cuff of his jacket.

"Yeah, well, sorry about that. You can be getting on with your life now," John said curtly.

"No," Sherlock said, and it was so quiet John almost didn't hear him.

"Sorry, did you say no?" 

"Yes. Yes, I said no. I can't. I can't just get on with my life," Sherlock said a bit louder, face set in a scowl.

"Well I'm really sorry I buggered everything up by falling for you. Perhaps I can offer you compensation," John spit sardonically.

"Stop!" Sherlock said roughly, standing and beginning to pace, "you aren't listening! I can't go back! This isn't a sham. I...I didn't mean to become involved with you, or anyone for that matter, but now that I am I find that I don't want to stop. I don't want this to end."

"Does what I want matter?" John demanded, sitting up and finding his side horribly painful.

"Not if what you decide is based on you being angry with me," Sherlock replied, nose high as if to suggest confidence but bottom lip wobbling.

"So you'll force me to date you. Christ, you really are a bloody charmer," John laughed humorlessly.

"No, but I'll ask you to put off judgement until I've given you more details," Sherlock said.

"And what could you say to make this not feel like betrayal?" John hissed, finding himself getting more and more agitated, like a cornered animal.

"I couldn't tell you the truth. I was working for the Met, and no matter how much I ridicule them they do have rules even I have to follow," Sherlock said, going to stand by the window.

"Yes, I know that, but-" John began.

"Would you be this angry if we'd remained friends? If you found this out as a mere friend?" Sherlock asked a bit more quietly.

Silence fell over the room as John thought. Would he really be as incensed? No. Was the betrayal really that bad, then? He knew men who had to do things on a need to know basis and he wouldn't hold it against them.

"Well, no, I suppose-" John admitted, anger turning acrid in his belly.

"Then why are you so much angrier now?" Sherlock asked, turning and taking a step closer.

"Because I trusted you with my...with my heart, okay? That's different than friendship! Because I thought I knew the man I was falling in love with, the man I let know me!" John spit, the truth of it rushing over him painfully.

"You...love me," Sherlock said, voice broken and eyes wide.

"Well, no, but I was well on my bloody way, wasn't I!" John said angrily.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispered, sitting back down next to John's bed, "I'm sorry I let it go this long without being able to tell you. I'm not used to this kind of thing happening."

"Yeah, well," John replied, nose scrunched up in an anger he was starting to think unjustified, "bit not good."

Sherlock smiled and it was such a lovely thing that John returned it without meaning to.

"I'd gathered that," Sherlock said.

The door opened and a silver haired man and a tall woman walked in. The woman looked at the two of them and made a shocked sound.

"He's real? John Watson isn't a figment of your imagination?" she spit.

"Yes, he's real," Sherlock said confidently.

John slipped his hand into Sherlock's and felt the man squeeze gently.

"Dr John Watson, and I'm his boyfriend," John said in his best captain voice.

The woman sputtered before turning and leaving the room. That was when the silver haired man took a step forward and smiled, proffering his hand.

"It's good to meet you, doctor. I'm Greg Lestrade," he said as he shook John's hand, "I have a few things I need to brief you on."


	42. Chapter 42

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One chapter after this one. :)

Lestrade spent the next half hour explaining what had happened in the case and how Sherlock had finally found John. He told John there were a few papers for him to sign but left it open for another time when the nurse checking John's vitals gave him a stern look. He left the room as the doctor came in to have John sign release paperwork. 

The nurse came back and gave John the go ahead to leave and handed him a stack of clothes. Sherlock left the room while John dressed, standing in the hall with Lestrade for the time being. Lestrade took a deep breath and crossed his arms, preparing to say something he obviously was having trouble with.

"What?" Sherlock asked with an uncomfortable eye roll.

"So you are dating?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock sighed and pulled a face before turning away from the man.

"Which is good," Lestrade added.

"Why is that?" Sherlock asked, more than a bit perturbed by the conversation.

"You need someone and he seems to think you're pretty great," Lestrade said with a shrug.

"What insight!" Sherlock teased, "you should have one of those shows on the telly where you solve people's problems for them."

"You don't have to be a prick about it," Lestrade said as he walked down the hall towards the coffee cart, a bad choice if you asked Sherlock, "I was just trying to say that I like him."

"Because you think he'll handle me," Sherlock said.

"No," Lestrade replied quickly, pouring himself a cup of something masquerading as coffee, "because I think he'll put up with you."

Sherlock was about to ask him what the hell he meant by that, knowing full well and secretly agreeing with the sentiment, when the door to the room opened and John walked out, dusting off his knees.

"Scuffed up my knees," he said absently, "wonder how long he had me on them for."

"John," Sherlock murmured, taken aback once again by not only seeing John but getting to hear him talk.

John tried not to smile at him and failed, looking away and meeting Greg's eyes accidentally.

"I think I'll go home," he said.

"I'll get you a cab," Sherlock said as he scrambled for his mobile.

He paused as John said goodbye to Lestrade and then walked with him out into the night. They stood close to each other for a second before a cab pulled up and Sherlock opened the door for John.

"You'll text me when you get home?" Sherlock asked a bit anxiously.

John was about to get into the cab but stopped at that. He breathed deeply for a second before turning to look Sherlock in the eye.

"Would you like to come by for coffee or something?" he asked stiffly.

Sherlock's mouth quirked up at one side and he nodded slightly before joining John in the back seat. They rode in silence, a silence that had Sherlock questioning his every life choice and scratching at his forearm agitatedly, until they came to a fairly dismal part of town and an even more dismal group of buildings. John paid the driver and Sherlock followed him up to a small flat on the third storey.

"It's small, I know," John said as he led Sherlock in and turned on a few lights.

Sherlock hung his greatcoat and watched from the entry as John went to fill the kettle and set it on a small hot plate. The kitchen took up the whole far wall, which wasn't saying much as the bedsit barely had room for more than John's small desk, armchair and bed. 

He must have been thinking a bit hard because the next thing he knew the water had boiled and John was emptying the French press into two cups and bringing them along with sugar and cream to the desk. The doctor nodded to the beat up armchair and Sherlock sat.

"How do you like your coffee?" John asked as he angled the desk chair to face Sherlock.

"Black, two sugars," Sherlock said, voice pinched.

He felt like he was about to be interviewed, perhaps for the part of John's boyfriend, which was a bit frightening as he had no idea how John had been talked into it in the first place. He took the cup when it was handed to him and stared into it disquietly.

"Tell me about you, the truth. Tell me who you are," John said as he sat back and looked Sherlock up and down.

"Oh. Well, I'm consulting detective for the Met, as I'm sure you've gathered. I help them out when they're out of their depths, which is always. I run a consulting business on the side, taking only interesting cases," Sherlock spit quickly.

"More," John said as he sipped from his cup.

"I-I have a brother. Works in the government. We don't get on. He thinks my interests are frivolous and I think his life is horribly dull," Sherlock added, "I play the violin."

"What made you want to talk to me?" John asked.

"I don't know," Sherlock said shortly, never any good at looking at his own motives.

John smiled a bit at his discomfort and set his cup down. Sherlock watched his hands carefully, as if not looking him in the eye would get him out of having to give a real answer.

"Use that big brain of yours and figure it out," John said teasingly as he nudged Sherlock with a sock clad toe.

He caught the flush the comment had created and tucked the information away for further use.

"I knew you were a doctor. I needed your help," Sherlock said before chewing his bottom lip.

"That's part of it," John said, leaning back and groaning when the move pulled at his side and the horrendous bruise there. 

He stood for a second and shifted his hips to try to wait out the pain and then went to sit on the edge of the bed with a grimace. Sherlock turned the chair to face it and watched as John settled a bit before focusing on him again.

"Do you need ice?" Sherlock asked, thoroughly concerned.

"No. When did you realise you liked me?" John asked, not willing to be pulled off topic by his injury.

Sherlock swallowed audibly and rolled his mug back and forth in his hands. 

"I suppose when you messaged me the first time," he admitted, "I'd been thinking of you a great deal and I didn't understand why."

"And talking to me in message form made you understand?" John asked, reaching out to take Sherlock's cup and setting it down before he spilled some of his ignored coffee on the rug.

Sherlock immediately gripped the arms of the chair, short fingernails scrabbling for purchase.

"You're quick," Sherlock said, "I'd got the feeling you'd be a good conversational partner through the emails but the amount of time between them could have masked some sort of issue."

"Issue?" John asked, chuckling a bit.

"I was afraid you were an idiot," Sherlock admitted with a put upon sigh, "I thought maybe you only seemed fairly clever because you had time to edit your input."

"Only fairly?" John teased.

Sherlock looked up at him with wide eyes and then, upon seeing the mirthful grin, rolled his and threw his hands up in the air, "you know what I mean."

"You mean that you're a bloody genius and I can almost keep up," John replied.

"It isn't an insult," Sherlock said plainly.

"You've been in London this whole time, haven't you?" John asked, changing the subject completely and causing Sherlock's stomach to somersault.

"Yes," he whispered.

"So why lie about that?" John asked.

"My face has been in the paper. I didn't want you to meet me and know I was a liar. I wanted you to like me a bit longer," Sherlock answered.

"You thought I'd be done with you when I found out," John said, surprised at the sudden realisation.

"You almost were," Sherlock replied.

"Kiss me," John murmured.

Sherlock glanced up, shocked, and saw no hesitation on John's face.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because I want you to."

Sherlock braced himself mentally, because that was the truth, and stood to take a step closer to where John was sat on the edge of the bed. He saw how nervous John was in the way his left hand clutched at the sheets and the set of his jaw. He didn't know why John would be nervous.

"Come on, then," John said softly, patting his lap.

The blush that had almost disappeared from Sherlock's neck made a repeat appearance as the tall man shifted from foot to foot and then slid into John's lap, knees on either side of his thighs. He let his eyes drift closed as John settled his hands on his hips and hummed appreciatively.

"You're gorgeous," the doctor whispered, "quite a nice surprise, that."

Sherlock took in a sharp breath as John's left hand moved up his side to his neck and then carded through the hair on the back of his head and he was pulled down so his lips were pressed to the shorter man's. They were immobile for a second before Sherlock relaxed a bit and John opened them slightly. The pressure was minimal to begin with, just a slight touching of skin, but it grew.

Sherlock, who had never given a damn about kissing as it had nothing to do with his cock and he'd rather just bloody get on with things, was surprised by his own small whimper as John pressed his tongue between his lips and licked the inside of his bottom lip. Why that, of all things, would have any effect was beyond him. He opened his mouth and felt John's tongue move feather soft against his.

They kissed like that, tentative and exploratorily, for long minutes until Sherlock finally drew back and rested his head on John's shoulder. John rubbed the back of his neck gently as he panted and tried desperately to reign in his emotions.

"John," he croaked.

"Shh. It's alright," John cooed, "I know it's a bit much."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispered.

"It's fine, it's all fine," John said as he ran his right hand along Sherlock's spine.


	43. Chapter 43

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is it, folks. So glad you came along for the ride.
> 
> Kate

John ran his fingers up into Sherlock's hair, pulling slightly and hushing him. The man was absolutely trembling in his arms. 

"You're okay, hey, look at me," John said softly.

Sherlock leaned back and met John's eyes, face stern and twisted. John brushed his thumb across one perfect cheekbone and then down over Sherlock's bottom lip. The taller man swallowed hard and let his eyes fall closed.

"Would you like to sleep here tonight?" John asked, "I'm knackered but I don't want you to go."

Sherlock nodded once before opening his eyes and sliding from John's lap to stand and remove his shirt. John unbuttoned his and went to brush his teeth, sliding it off after he rinsed and returning to his bed where he unbuttoned his denims and slid the zip down. Sherlock looked up and his eyes drifted to John's scar.

"You can touch it if you want," John said.

Sherlock's eyes flitted between John's and the scar for a moment before he took a step closer and ran his fingers across the gnarled skin.

"Is it sensitive?" he asked, voice low.

"No, just a big ugly scar," John said, slipping his jeans down his thighs and stepping out of them while Sherlock continued to investigate the marred skin.

"I think it's beautiful," Sherlock whispered, "so very human."

John didn't know what to say, mouth hanging open slightly as Sherlock took a step closer and kissed it softly. When he looked up and met John's eyes there was a kind of tenderness there that wasn't packing the pity John was afraid he'd find.

"Will you take me to bed?" Sherlock asked at length.

John cleared his throat and nodded before unbuttoning Sherlock's trousers and pushing them down his legs. He pulled him close so they were pressed together tightly before taking Sherlock's mouth again and licking into the heat. When they pulled apart so they could get onto the bed Sherlock bit his lip slightly.

"I know it's been a while," John said, "we'll go slowly."

Sherlock nodded and let John pull his tight black pants down and off. He felt horribly exposed, the last time he'd been with anyone was during his drug days. He never really thought of himself as attractive but others seemed to find him so. John apparently did, if the signs of arousal were to be believed.

John ran his hands up Sherlock's inner thighs and down again before reaching to the bedside drawer to get condoms and a bottle of lube. He tore one of the packets open and rolled the condom onto Sherlock's cock. Sherlock gasped as John's lips wrapped around the head and his tongue teased at the slit.

John drew back with a smack and stroked Sherlock's shaft as he watched the man below him blush horribly.

"I'm going to suck you now," he said with a small smile, "is that okay?"

Sherlock nodded feverishly and gripped the sheets as John rutted against his leg and surrounded his prick in wet heat. He was thankful for the condom, knowing he'd have come the second John's lips had touched him and he'd have felt extremely foolish.

John sucked hard and bobbed his head, humming around the shaft as he sank lower with every go. The sight of him, lips red and shining, hair slightly mussed, made Sherlock moan. He reached down to thread his fingers into short cut blond hair, just holding it, and felt John hum his approval.

Soon John had brought his hand up to fondle Sherlock's bollocks as he pressed down far enough to make the head of Sherlock's cock butt up against the tight opening of his throat. Sherlock was making little whimpering sounds, sounds he couldn't control, and gripping roughly at the sheets. When John pulled almost all the way off and then sank back down with tightened lips Sherlock could hardly stand anymore.

"John!" He shouted, pushing lightly at John's shoulder.

John pulled off with a wet sound and grabbed the second condom to cover his leaking prick. He gripped it at the base for a moment, head hung and breath coming in pained puffs, before he pulled himself from the edge and glanced up.

"God, you're gorgeous," he whispered as he slicked up his cock and straddled Sherlock's legs so their pricks rested together in his palm.

"Oh," Sherlock sighed.

"You like that, don't you?" John asked as he gripped them and started to pull, "when I tell you how pretty you are, how clever."

Sherlock's hips thrust and he moaned loudly as John quickened his strokes.

"That's it," John growled, "thrust up into my fist."

Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes, head lolling to the side and hips starting to take a desperate rhythm. John tightened his grip and brushed a thumb across Sherlock's right nipple, causing the younger man to pant and shake even more.

"God, yes," John cursed as he began to thrust himself and grunt.

"Oh! Oh!" Sherlock exclaimed, "John!"

John felt the heat of arousal pool in his belly as his body begged for more, more friction, tighter, harder. He pinched Sherlock's nipple and started to come.

"Fuck! Oh, bloody hell!" he shouted, still stroking until he became over sensitive and opened his eyes.

Sherlock was staring at him with wide eyes as John continued to stroke him roughly.

"John!" he said, voice slightly panicked, "oh, John, it's-"

"Tell me what you need," John said, leaning over Sherlock and brushing the hair from his forehead.

"You. Just you," Sherlock whispered as his body went rigid and he emptied into the condom with a deep groan.

John stroked him through the aftershocks, then grinned and kissed his belly and chest before slumping to his side and pulling off his condom. He tossed it in the bin next to the bed and held the bin up for Sherlock. The taller man removed his own condom and dropped it in before sighing and wrapping his arms around John's waist.

"That was perfect," John murmured as he carded his fingers through Sherlock's curls.

Sherlock hummed in agreement and closed his eyes.

_____

John was awake and in the shower the next day when Sherlock got a call to come to a rather brutal crime scene. Lestrade told him it would be at least a seven and Sherlock rang off quickly and went to stand outside the loo. Four minutes later John opened the door, towel slung low on his hips, and nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Jesus!" he yelped.

"I've been called to a crime scene," Sherlock said with a smile.

"Oh," John replied, a bit miffed that he wouldn't at least stay for tea.

"Will you come?" Sherlock asked, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

John broke into a wide grin and nodded.


End file.
